


Delirium (the delight remix)

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus had never expected lunch at Grimmauld Place to be quite this disconcerting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delirium (the delight remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinetikatrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Things We Never Did At School](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/666) by kinetikatrue. 



> Thanks go to my beta, [whitmans-kiss](http://whitmans-kiss.livejournal.com), who is a sweetheart for struggling through my convoluted language; and to [ceredwensirius](http://ceredwensirius.livejournal.com) (a.k.a [Ceredwen](../../users/Ceredwen/pseuds/Ceredwen)) for being so lovely about having snippets pasted at her, and for general hand-holding and telling-to-breathe.

You frown, the first time. Clearly it’s your hyperactive imagination again at work, and the wishful delirium of an under-worked libido. Though, if you think about it, really, it’s not very easy to simply imagine a foot running the length of your calf. An elbow at your ribs, softly nudging, sure—especially at a table as crowded as this, especially today since Minerva and Severus have chosen to grace the gathering with their presence. Perhaps even, with enough imagination—imagination like your imagination, hyper-aware of every touch because so very starved of touch—one might even create out of airy nothing a promising glance, or the momentary press of a warm hand to the shoulder. A foot, though, that’s a bit difficult to conjure—not actually conjure, conjure metaphorically—especially when it’s trying to sneak its way up your trousers. It stops, after a moment, as Molly brings in the stew, issuing rapid instructions to all the children, and you shake your head to clear it of its delusions, and try to catch Sirius’ eye as he frowns—she just called Harry ‘son’. You’d think it childish if Sirius had any other way of asserting himself, but as things stand this is better, at least, than trying to sneak out of the house and getting caught.

Half-way through the stew, it’s back, unmistakably present, and very much a foot. You choke on a bite, and Molly looks at you, cutting her conversation with Bill short. Bill looks at you as well with something a little like gratitude, so doubtless she’s going on about his hair again. You shrug in response to their looks and lower your eyes to your food. The foot’s still there, on your knee, and now, like a child sure it’s getting all the attention, it presses up till the whole length of it is lying on your thigh, toes nudging your belt. You resist the urge to look beneath the table—it’d be terribly embarrassing if it is your imagination, and if it isn’t, well, it’d still be terribly embarrassing. You wouldn’t be able to say anything, and if it’s someone deeply unpleasant, you’d really rather not know.

And really, practically everyone at the table is either unpleasant, or simply illogical—Molly for one, or Bill, or the twins, or… no, that’s actually heading into illegal, and you won’t know what to say if it is, for instance, Hermione who’s wedging her foot very cleverly onto the sharp slope of hipbone protruding just above your trousers. Best not think that, really, that way lies madness and the gathering desire to bang your head repeatedly against walls. At least she’s far enough away that she cannot possibly be doing this, unlike… unlike Harry, wedged shoulder to shoulder with Sirius, turning to talk eagerly to Moody about something to do with Auror training. Not Harry, for a certainty, and Moody’s—for all his other sins—straight, and even if he weren’t, would never do something quite this ridiculously juvenile, and likely wouldn’t be able to keep his balance, like this. On Sirius’ other side, it’s Hestia and Emmeline, two definite impossibilities. Which leaves… which leaves Sirius, actually, who’s lavishing all his attention on his lunch, when normally he’d be leaning back in his seat, drawling retorts to every word Severus utters. It would be an odd relief, if it is Sirius—not illegal, not unpleasant, and only slightly illogical. And you know, after all—you’ve twenty years practice knowing—how to deal with Sirius in matters of sexuality, not a knowledge you can claim—or wish to—for any of the others.

Except your knowledge of Sirius and sexuality is actually your knowledge of your sexuality as regards Sirius, and that consists almost entirely of repress, repress, deny, with your subconscious occasionally sneaking in wet dreams at the most inopportune moments. Nothing that remotely resembles being felt up under the table at lunch—it doesn’t help that you’re growing hard under the subtle persuasion of the foot. A foot, really now, how entirely and absurdly juvenile. The sort of thing children might be expected to do. The sort of thing Sirius has never done, or at least has never done with you; you can hardly be expected to vouch for all the girls he’s bedded over the years. All the men, too, if this is any indication—and that is the really worrying part, come to think. In all the years you’ve known Sirius, he’s never evinced any interest in any man, let alone you. It’s true he’s never played poke-the-queer, either, no matter how easy and tempting a target may have presented itself, but it’s a long way from civil tolerance to attraction.

Of course, it’s a long way from the arrogant little pissant Sirius used to be, to this man. Maybe it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he’s skin-hungry enough to want sex—for the sheer comfort, if nothing else. Sirius always was the tactile sort—flung himself onto people and looked surprised when they interpreted it as sexual in any way. But the foot is rubbing your dick now, for Merlin’s sake; how else are you supposed to interpret that? You shift in your seat to get away, but the moment you settle it’s pressing against you, toes feeling out the shape of you. Fine. Fine, so Sirius wants sex, with you, and is rather pleased to have hit upon the idea, to judge from the small, smug smiles he’s aiming at his plate.

So the question is, of course, do you want sex with Sirius? Your dick fills up so fast the moment you allow yourself to think about it that you slouch lower in your seat, inadvertently spreading your legs further. It is, evidently, a stupid question—of course you want sex with Sirius. You want sex, period, and Sirius used to, once upon several decades ago, star in several masturbatory fantasies, many of which you still used, guilt-wracked, after he went to Azkaban and James to his grave. That… well, that uncomplicates things, doesn’t it, if he wants you, and you want him, and really, you don’t care why he wants you, it’s enough and more that he does, even if for simple comfort.

Except. Well, except if he’s actually asking for comfort, and is offering sex because he thinks that’s how he’ll get it, then… then that’s exploitative of you, isn’t it, and humiliating, for you, yes, and him even more, and bloody fucking Merlin, you’ve no idea how you’ll get up from this table—not with an erection like this, and really, really, it’s unreasonable of Sirius to do this here, so very publicly. Then, of course, Sirius has never been the most logical of men, so this isn’t, entirely, unexpected—well, it’s unexpected that he does this, but if you’d ever thought about Sirius propositioning you, however indirectly, this would very likely have been one of the scenarios you concocted.

Which doesn’t make it easier, and you try and pry your legs together, eject the foot from its comfortable position. Sirius looks up at that, and clearly he has not even thought of being rejected, and you would hate him for that ego—how has he kept it, through Azkaban?—save that he looks heart-stopping happy, and he hasn’t been since James died, not really, and you won’t flatter yourself you’ve caused that, that you’re anywhere near what James was to Sirius, but, God, God, he looks young when he’s happy; he looks handsome. And he smiles at you, and it’s such a stupid, schoolboy thing to do, but you can barely meet his eyes, he looks so happy, and all that sheer exultation is focused on you, and it’s ridiculous how easily that makes you smile, and smile and smile till your face is aching and the conversation has dulled to a buzz, and you’re grinning at each other like absolute idiots.

You look away, terribly close to blushing like a love-struck child—you’re not much better, really, to forget yourself so, and to think you thought yourself above these things, even in school, all of thirteen, karma, really, come to bite you right on the arse, no matter you don’t believe in karma at all, and karma’s a bitch, and clearly she believes in you, and that’s enough, and you knock against your glass and spill pumpkin juice in a mess along the table, and Sirius doesn’t even move his plate or arm out of the way, simply sits with his sleeve soaking, and he’s laughing at you now, you realise when you pick the glass up, and that should be further humiliation, but it’s fairly devoid of scorn—and you know, you’ve years of knowing, how easily Sirius’ mirth can turn scornful—and it’s something to share in, like secrets whispered in bed, and the prospect of that is enthralling. So you laugh back, and lick the juice from your fingers, and watch his eyes sharpen in desire.

His foot is a warm weight on your lap.


End file.
